I'm Gonna Knock Me Out

I'm out. 

Roughly translated, it means I'm done, I'm leaving, I'm over it, this is a pain etc. But are we really out? Can we ever be out? 

I can be a hermit. Winter is a trigger for my hermit-like behavior. And I wonder to myself could I really just disappear for awhile? Like Howard Hughes living in the penthouse at the Desert Inn. Except I would never let my nails grow the way he did. That's just weird. Plus he was a millionaire, so I would have to be "out" middle class style like at a Hampton Inn. 

I was talking to my neighbor who is a Staples grad a little older than I am. Her brother was one grade above mine. We know many of the same people like the Shaughnessy gang. I asked her about a cool necklace she was wearing and she said, "Oh I wear this when I need a little something extra." Or something like that. Like when she needs super powers. 

She went on to explain that she had a lot on her plate. She and her brother had recently met with their parents and decided they could no longer navigate their family home on their own. In her own family, she has 3 kids, 1 out of college, 1 in college, and another taking a break. Then she told me it was her first day back at work in the school system because of a "self-inflicted concussion." I asked what is that? 

She said she was taking laundry down to the basement and when she turned around, she ran smack into an iron pipe and knocked herself out. Like out cold. Thankfully, it was the weekend and someone was home. She didn't just lie there prone in the basement like I sometimes think they'll find me. 

Personally, I believe a "self-inflicted concussion" occurs when you're racing around trying to do too many things at one time and/or when you're pretty much like every mom I know.

I bet she wishes she could be out, this neighbor friend of mine. If you've cold cocked yourself by accident, then you've probably earned the right to be out.  

As a parent or a partner or a pet owner, I feel that we don't ever get to be out. Until we're finally out, the last hurrah, the big sleep. But a girl can dream of one day being out. Just for a bit. 

NB Mama Said Knock You Out is one of my faves from early rap from LL Cool J who was just honored at the Kennedy Center Awards where I was for the briefest moment ever a waitress during an event honoring Jimmy Stewart.  They probably should've told me I needed to carry a ginormous tray to be qualified. Instead, I think I just bussed tables for the rest of the night.

Reading Between the Lines: Conversation with My 14 Year Old

My conversation with my son yesterday morning went something like this:

Him: Can I go to Kareem's birthday party tomorrow?

Me: Sure. What time?

Him: 12 am.

Me: 12 am? At night? Or do you mean pm in the afternoon?

Him: I think the one in the day time.

Me: Okay. But we need to get him a gift.

Him: (Pause)

Him: Okay because we're going to shoot guns.

Me: What?

Him: For the party, they're taking us to shoot guns.

Me: What?

Him: (looking exasperated) What?

Me: No. No way you're going to shoot guns with Kareem. I don't even know his parents.

Me: (I'm lying. I did meet his mom once and briefly spoke with his dad when he came to pick up Kareem. Mom is Lithuanian I think and his father is Egyptian)

Him: Fine.

Me: You can ask your dad but my answer is no.

Him: (walks off)

Me (now upstairs talking to my husband): Did you hear that conversation?

Other Him: No. What?

Me: He wanted to go to a birthday party for Kareem where they are going to shoot guns.

Other Him: Who's Kareem?

Me: You know Kareem. He came over here one time with Knife Boy. (Knife Boy. That's another interesting story. Gave my son a knife as a birthday gift.)

Other Him: I don't remember Kareem.

Me: Yes you do. You thought he was a girl. (Kareem is an extremely handsome kid with long, dark hair)

Other Him: Oh him. You know I think I actually called him a girl. I can't remember.

Me: Perfect.

Sometimes I think I'm going crazy. Literally. I later explained to Will that I can appreciate that he wants to go, but there's no way I'm letting my only child go shoot a gun with somebody I barely know. And yet here I am up at 5:49 am still thinking about it.

Like Fingernails on a Chalkboard

This blog inspired by Deb (the motivation to write, not the mother involved)

About two weeks ago, I went into the City to get a facial. I can't say that I see much of a difference or any difference for that matter, but it was nice to go in on the train and have some quiet time to myself, or so I thought.

It was late afternoon on a Saturday.The ride in was quiet. I read an old Oprah magazine I'd bought like two months before and hadn't read. There was a great piece about Emily Mortimer the actress from Dear Frankie, Lars and the Real Girl and regrettably the new Pink Panther series. She's wonderful and it's a great story about shyness and overcoming insecurity even as an adult.

I had a lovely facial, nothing painful or smelly. Just a nice quiet hour of relaxation. Then I got back on the train to come home. Two very cute kids entered the car I was sitting in and their mother followed. She looked pissed. Granted she had two little kids and an infant seat and a stroller and two bags and quite a few extra pounds - but she looked pissed.

The father arrived with the baby and they all took their seats on the train. The boy looked to be about my son's age - maybe 12. He had a very sweet face, big dimples and long hair. He was reading a book when his mother started to fixate on his fingernails. "Oh my God, would you look at your nails?" And it just kept going and going and going. "You can't finish your book until you cut your nails."

One thing I've learned as a parent is to choose wisely the lines you mark in the sand. Because kids will test you. So you better feel strongly about the point you are arguing. This mom kept hammering. "Luke, cut your nails. Do it, or I'll do it for you. And you don't want me to do it for you."

It's one of those stock lines parents use that doesn't actually make any sense. As a kid I would be thinking, I don't want to do this. You're volunteering to do it for me. Sounds like a good deal.

With that threat lingering in the air, the mother stood up and walked to the bathroom. The son turned to his father and said, "Did you ever argue with her even when I was young?"

"You're being a fresh kid."

"I hate when adults say fresh."

It's hard to explain but this next part was actually kind of sweet - a father and tween son bonding over swear words while the overlord was in the bathroom.

"Okay, how about I call you a douchebag?"

"I'm not saying you have to call me a douchebag But I'm not 5."

Mother returns to son picking at his nails with a piece of paper. "What is he doing? Picking his fingers with a piece of cardboard?"

I watched and wished I'd sat anywhere else on the train. My fleeting "me time" coming to a sudden halt. I felt really sorry for this little kid being bullied by his mother over something so silly as fingernails. Really?

But I also felt for the mom . I've been there. Fat and wearing unattractive stretchy pants. Loaded down with so much crap you feel like a pack mule. Food on your shirt. Exhausted from not sleeping. Wanting to control something. It's unfortunate that the one thing she chose to control that day was her son, and his nails and his reading.

I felt like saying, "Lady if your kid is reading anything, you should be grateful. Your kid has a sense of humor. Your kid is healthy. Your kid is bright. Give it a rest."

But I didn't say anything. I hope her son grows Howard Hughes fingernails the minute he turns 18.

Ebb and Flow

Friday was 9/11, always a sad day particularly the closer you live to the City. I ran into my neighbor who was going camping with his little girl. I remarked that the rainy weather was not ideal for camping. He explained that a group of guys and their kids go every year to commemorate friends and loved ones lost on that terrible day.

My son had some homework to do on Friday afternoon. I came in the room and heard him chatting on the phone with one of my friends. He had her on speakerphone and she asked that I take the phone from him. She wanted to speak in private. She was having a miscarriage and wanted my advice.

Her doctor advised going to the ER but she felt that was extreme. Under any circumstances, the ER is a place to avoid. Particularly during something as emotionally difficult as a miscarriage, hanging out in the ER for hours is not ideal.

I suggested trying to find another OB center that had the sophisticated ultrasound equipment her smaller town doctor did not. She did find a smaller ER and was able to get in and out in a few hours versus the many that it usually takes.

My friend had arranged to come visit the next day. I assumed she'd want to cancel but she felt the distraction would be a good thing. So the trip here was still on for Saturday evening. On Saturday afternoon, I had a baby shower for another friend. This friend is having a baby by surrogate. I've never met anyone who's done this before so it was an interesting day.

When I arrived, I actually sat next to the surrogate mom. I was sort of wondering who the lady was in her Laura Ashley conservative dress versus New York hipster moms that made up the rest of the shower attendees. We spoke briefly and I found out that she has two children of her own and this is her second time acting as a surrogate.

Such a strange experience that must be to carry a child for someone else. In fact, the surrogate mom carried twins the first time and then gave them up to another family. The loss I felt after miscarriages and the loss my other friend was experiencing losing this pregnancy, it seems so vivid to me. I can't imagine how you mentally come to terms with bearing a child and then giving that child up for adoption.

At the end of the shower, the mom-to-be was opening all of her gifts. This is Westport so we're talking extravagant gifts--two Tiffany teething rings, endless onesies, toys and books. My friend said at one point, "What the expression? A cacophony of riches?" An embarrassment of riches. That's the saying she was looking for but couldn't find.

The gift that most touched her was a little quilt handmade by the surrogate mom. In one corner, she'd embroidered, "Carried with love, forever in my heart." The mom-to-be broke down in tears.

An embarrassment of riches, it's true. Another very fortunate baby will grow up in Westport, Connecticut. Maybe the surrogate mom feels an embarrassment of riches. Because she can have children, she's decided to carry children for women who can't.

She sat there amongst the glitter and glam in her simple dress, giving what is priceless to my friend. For one friend, a baby is coming. For another, a baby is lost. I remembered the poem Joe Biden read during Friday's 9/11 ceremony.

"Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. Meanwhile the world goes on."
--Wild Geese by Mary Oliver